


As I Feel Myself Fall

by Lucterna



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Smut, plus size reader, trigger warning for language relating to self image and weight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 04:19:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16885503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucterna/pseuds/Lucterna
Summary: Have you ever fantasized about your employer?  Sure, who wouldn't?  Who hasn't?  But you'd never guess, or even believe he'd fantasize about you too.





	As I Feel Myself Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a few years ago as part of my "plus size series" on tumblr, an attempt to make readers who aren't thin or small feel like they were part of the same fanfiction they enjoyed reading. It wasn't meant to exclude people, but given that some small details have the ability to throw a reader out of a story, especially one in which they are trying to imagine themselves, I thought it would be a welcome change.

When you set out for work around nine in the morning, it’s already unusually balmy, sunshine beating down on the city streets like it might turn London itself into a Salvador Dali painting. One glance down at your t-shirt and jeans and you know you won’t make it like this today. You can already feel sweat collecting at the small of your back, trickling into the tiny gap at the waist of the jeans. Sighing, you turn right back around to change.

Dressing for the weather is often a struggle. On the one hand, as soon as summer even thinks of settling in, you all but become a nudist. Shorts and skirts that don’t quite make it to your knees, tank tops with straps so thin everyone can see the bright pink and white paisley of that one bra you had to spend a ridiculous amount of money on. It’s the only comfortable one you own, because bra shopping is a nightmare at your size; if you can find the cup, the band is made for someone of plastic porn star proportions, and if you get the band size, good luck finding the cup at all.

And, of course, there’s nothing wrong with having those types of proportions. It’s just that you don’t. Which brings us to the other hand. No matter how good you feel in your skin some days, no matter how unbearably hot it might get so that you need to dress so skimpily or risk passing out, there’s always going to be someone who gives you  _that_  look.

 

If you were thin, you suppose they’d call you a slut, but you’re not thin; you’re far from it. And thus you’re not a slut, you’re a pig; a pig on hind legs parading as a human being in clothes that cling to your belly and thighs, clothes that let them see that sometimes your skin isn’t a smooth and unbroken plane, but a place where pesky cellulite collects, a place where stretch marks might appear as deep and obvious pink ridges in your shoulders, or the silvery slivers that climb each side of your belly, only visible when your shirt’s ridden up and the sunlight touches it a certain way.

Loving your body is often an uphill battle, just barely won when your own esteem and complete strangers, sometimes even your friends, are working against you.

But today, you don’t want to care about that. You trade your jeans for a pair of denim shorts that hugs your thighs and backside in a way your ex-boyfriend used to love - an amazing guy, that is, until you learned he liked to put his hands on other women too - and the t-shirt gets traded out for a loose racerback tank top that proclaims you a proper fan of the Rolling Stones. This isn’t strange work attire for you, though you know of people who dress a little more professionally to do it.

Most of the time, you never see your clients. You offer them your services as a housekeeper, usually attending to their homes when they’ve gone away: actors for filming, musicians for touring and the like. There’s a contract that you both sign, one to ensure your payment, the other to keep up their privacy, you set up a cleaning schedule and, boom, you’ve got yourself a pretty swank job. Just like most people, you work Monday to Friday, starting at nine in the morning and ending whenever you manage to finish the job. It’s a new house or flat everyday, since you only need to visit once a week while they’re gone.

Today’s Friday, and in your current schedule this client is the only musical artist. One-fifth of the world’s biggest boy band, Liam Payne. You remember meeting him over lunch in the beginning, and he’d been ridiculously sweet, even insisted on paying for the meal once the two of you had inked your signatures on the contracts. He was also surprisingly easy to talk to; most initial client meetings lasted just long enough to say “Okay, I’ll clean your house” and “Okay, I’ll pay you for it” and then you were on your merry way. But Liam wanted to chat, he wanted to tell you about his dog, who usually stayed with his sister, and he wanted to ask about your musical tastes when he heard a particular song split the air from your cellphone.

And though he wasn’t really supposed to be home whenever you came by to tidy up his flat, collect what little mail was allowed to go there, and water the few plants by one huge sliding glass door, there have been a few times that you’ve let yourself in only to find him there. Once, he was sprawled out on his sofa, watching a football match on his gigantic television; another, you must have arrived on the heels of a pizza delivery, because the apartment reeked of pepperoni and fresh baked bread. He’d invited you to have a drink and watch the game, to share a slice of pizza pie and a cup of tea and… Well, sometimes, you think you might refer to him as a bit of a friend, not just another job.

Plus, you’re not blind; the boy is incredibly easy on the eyes. You just manage to keep the part of you that’s attracted to him locked in an impenetrable safe that so far has only ever popped open when you’re home alone.

Often, you tease him, “You should have told me you’d be here!”

His usual response is, “Well, it was gonna need a clean anyway,” and this adorable grin that you have to roll your eyes at, else you feel a little weak in the knees when it’s trained your way.

Despite how lovely Liam’s building is outside and in, the elevator seems to have gotten shafted when it comes to climate control. Sweat beads along your forehead and upper lip, along the line of your tank top, slipping down between your breasts. When the doors finally whoosh open on his floor, you’re greeted with enough cold air to give full body shivers until the moisture on your skin dries. You supposed you should be glad it’s got air conditioning at all, being a newer building.

You push your rolling case ahead of you, which is filled with the supplies you usually use to wipe down and tidy up, and stop at the door to Liam’s apartment. Fishing your work keys out of your pocket, you find the one painted with your favorite nail polish - the copies are all done with different colors so you know whose is whose - and slide it into the lock. You’re surprised when it doesn’t quite click, and the door swings open on the sound of the television.

From his overstuffed leather sofa, Liam’s head jerks around and those umber eyes find yours; you wonder if they’re just as wide. Liam is practically on display for you, shirtless, wearing only a loose pair of gray sweats, barefoot. He’d been lying back, giving you the perfect view of the expanse of his chest, covered in thick dark hair and growing more so as it reaches the waist of those pants. You swallow, stomach doing a hard flip-flop and heat racing down your spine. He looks like he hasn’t been out of bed long, dark hair tousled and falling over his forehead, eyes still a little puffy at the bottom.

“Uh, oh, hey, I didn’t know you were going to be home today,” you say, and this is decidedly not like the other times.

Liam hops up, which is a terrible thing to do, because the sweats ride low on his hips and you can see the deep lines that run into the waist of them. Your eyes follow them before you can stop yourself, ending up at the dark patch of hair that circles his navel and disappears into the pants as well. Unconsciously you run your tongue across your bottom lip, unaware you’ve gotten lost until Liam clears his throat.

“I forgot it was Friday,” he says, embarrassed, lifting one well muscled arm to scratch at the back of his neck.

You try to look at just his face, and in fact just his eyes, as you’d caught your own gaze lingering on his mouth while he talks and, shit, doesn’t he realize how hard this is for you sometimes? You want to keep things professional; if it got out you slept with a client, you’re sure you’d lose others.

“It’s, um, it’s okay,” you say, flustered and hot even in your clothes. You’re too busy drowning in your own rampant, rebellious hormones, to realize Liam’s gaze is raking you, taking in every single curve of your body, the peek into your cleavage from the neck of your tank top and the cling of the denim to your thighs. He licks his own lips and the site of the motion has you shivering. “I’ll just… you know, I can come back next week or… whenever.”

Liam hesitates, arms hanging at his sides like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them yet. “No, no, stay… I’ll, um, I’ll keep out your way. Just do what you normally would.” He gives you a smile that you know is meant to be sweet, but your insides are squirming in such a way that all you can think of is those lips curving against yours.

“Sure, I-” the words tumble out of you and you wince a bit, because you shouldn’t and you’re not thinking straight, but it’s silly; you’ve cleaned with him here before. “Um, okay. I’m just… will you be offended if I put my headphones in?” You motion to your pocket like he can see your phone inside of it.

“Whatever you want, babe,” he says, and there’s a little teeth in his grin this time, “Just pretend I’m not here.”

And that’s what you try to do, sticking your earbuds in and turning the music up just loud enough to drown out the sounds of the television while Liam flops back on the couch again, apparently with the belief that he can still be practically nude and stay invisible. So, your throat’s a little dry as you get started, cleaning up in the kitchen first. It works for a little while though, as you hum with the music, getting lost in the chores that you’re used to doing. For a few, everything else is white noise and your body cools down, your mind settles. You wipe down countertops, gather the trash and even duck into his fridge to go through the dates on the food.

At the sink, you wash the few dishes that have collected, wondering when exactly he got home to dirty them. But the thought is lost in getting the plates and cups dry, putting them in the cabinet by the stove. From there, you take the bagged trash and set it by the door so you can take it out when you leave.

Somehow you manage to walk right by him, dragging your case along, when you head for the bathroom. It’s just as it was in the kitchen, still mostly clean, but with the lingering vestiges of a recent shower; towel hanging over the bar on the sliding door, his shaving implements on the edge of the sink. You mop the shaving cream out of the white basin and put everything back where you’ve seen it goes. The towel you leave, but just because laundry isn’t on your to-do list.

It’s as you emerge from the bathroom, earbuds tucked into your bra to give your ears a break, that you can’t ignore Liam anymore. Not just because you know he’s there, but because you run right into him. Your bodies collide and as he stumbles back, you nearly pitch forward with a startled squeak, saved from tumbling headfirst into him by his heels digging into the floor and his hands closing around your upper arms.

You have one awful self conscious moment of just being grateful you hadn’t fallen on him and crushed him. He might look sturdy, but sometimes your very private fantasies are ruined by the idea you could hurt him.

“There, there now. Sorry about that,” he says, and his face is just as red as you imagine yours to be. His hands are still wrapped around your arms, huge and hot against your skin. “You all right?”

“Uh,” you begin intelligently, eyes rolling somewhere between his bared chest and blushing face, “Um, yeah, yes, fine. I’m good, um, sorry, I should have been looking where I was going.”

He seems to have to drag his eyes up from the white cord disappearing into the top of your tank before he can answer you, shaking his head. “No, not at all, it’s my fault…”

What feels like hours passes between the two of you, the heat of his hands seeping into your arms and crawling down your body in a path too familiar. You try your damnedest to ignore it, but the more he holds onto you, the harder it is.

Without warning, Liam’s face descends on yours. Your eyes go wide and you think about struggling away, bolting out of the apartment and maybe disappearing into the floor somewhere. But his lips meet your lips in a tentative kiss before you can act on that urge and when you gasp, he takes advantage of your lips parting to swipe his tongue inside. The touch of it against yours is enough to snap you back to reality and when you jerk away, Liam’s hands let go of you without protest.

“What- what are you doing?” you demand, face flushed, heart pounding. You’re not even sure what to think at this point, just a jumbled mess of anxiety and hormones.

“It- I’m- I don’t… know?” he begins, looking guilty, just as red in the face, “But I-” He licks his lips, eyes ducking down to yours, to the way your erratic breaths make your chest heave. “I wanted to kiss you, I’m sorry, I- I should have asked if you-”

“Wait, wait.. what are you- what?” You’re startled enough that you can almost forget about your heart racing along with your heated insides. “You wanted to kiss me?” For a second, you actually glance down at yourself, wondering if you’ve magically morphed into something, someone completely different.

Liam’s gaze follows yours, his brows knitting in confusion. “Well, yeah,” he says, the “duh” left unspoken. “Is that… bad?”

“Why would you want to kiss me?” you wonder, unable to keep from picking at it. Part of your brain is sure you should shut your mouth, or well, only open it for another of those kisses, and the rest is pretty sure Liam has lost his mind.

He looks around his otherwise empty hallway as if there could be anybody else there, before looking at you again. “Why wouldn’t I?”

A conversation about your current body image is not really what you want to have with Liam - and you ignore that little voice, the one shouting about kissing him, that is a hundred percent sure what you should be having. Swallowing, you shake your head, and mumble, “I’m… I’m your maid.” It’s basically true, even if you clean for others too.

Of course, he doesn’t seem entirely satisfied with this answer, but he runs with it, shrugging those broads shoulders. “Is that supposed to make you unattractive?”

Yes, okay, he’s lost his mind. You try to let that half of your brain take over, because what good is going to come of listening to the other half’s clamoring? “No, but, it… It’s like kissing my boss, or something. Isn’t that-”

“Kind of hot?” Liam finishes before you can say anything else, lips splitting in the cheekiest grin you’ve ever seen on his face.

Cheeks flaring hot crimson all over again, you duck your head. “What, no, unprofessional. It’s not… professional.”

Liam’s chuckles fill your ears, and he closes up the tiny bit of distance between you, hands cupping your jaw and then running back underneath your ponytail to cradle the back of your head. “I’m not really worried about that part. I just want to kiss you, is that okay?”

Your eyes meet his uncertainly, the space between your skin and the rest of you a tingling mess.

“If you really don’t want me to, I won’t. And you can forget I said anything.” He lays his forehead against yours. “I still don’t understand why you think I wouldn’t want to though.”

Your eyes run down, over those plush lips, down that barrel chest covered in curly hairs you’d love to feel under your fingers, against your cheeks, but they stop when they reach the swell of your belly pressing into his, dimpled by the pressure of his body against yours. You desperately want him to kiss you again, want those heavy hands to run along your body, but you can’t imagine he’d want to touch any more than he has. You’re not often this down on yourself - most times you think you think you can walk through a crowd and be untouchable by their poignant, judgemental gazes. But here, under Liam’s, with him so warm and close… You feel much more vulnerable than you’re comfortable even admitting to yourself.

Not wanting to say these things aloud, you tell him, “Liam, I don’t think… I don’t know how to say it. I’m not like anyone you’ve dated before.” Okay, that sounds stupid.

His fingertips press momentarily into the back of your scalp, an unconscious gesture meant to soothe you. “Well, no, you’re not,” he says, obviously unaware what you really mean. “But that’s… what’s that got to do with anything?”

Should you really spell it out for him? Do you want to go down that road? Honestly, not really. Your stomach is churning, somewhere between anxiety and desire and you’ve got to make a decision.

“Do you really… really want to kiss me?” you finally say, voice soft, as you’re unable to quite meet his eyes.

His hands slip down the sides of your neck to lay on your shoulders and you think of the stretch marks there, feel his fingertips dip into one of the obvious ridges. He doesn’t even seem to think about it, just tracing along the jagged line it makes.

“Of course I want to.”

You take a nervous look around the hall, much as he did earlier, as if paparazzi and angered fans might start crawling out of the walls. “Then… then you should,” you begin and add a beat later, “I want you to kiss me.”

Fingers tracing down your shoulder, curling into the soft flesh at the back of your upper arm, he asks, one more time, “Are you sure?”

It only takes a second after you’ve nodded for him to comply, mouth touching yours lightly at first, testing the truth in your words. When you don’t pull away, he presses in closer, harder, the hand at your shoulder wandering down to run along your side and slip around to your back. He pulls your body flush against his and you try not to think too much how it yields under the hard muscle of his abdomen, instead just trying to enjoy how he feels this close, how he tastes when you open your mouth for him again. His free hand finds its way to your hair again, fingers slipping into the elastic you’ve had it held back with and then tugging.

You whimper, the sensation not altogether unpleasant as your hair slips out of the band and his fingers run into it, tangling up, tugging just so you’ll make that sound for him again.

Your own hands, seemingly useless until now, find their way to his shoulders, curving over to touch his back and his neck. He’s as well muscled here as anywhere else, and you can feel it just beneath his smooth, tanned skin. He doesn’t so much moan as hum into your mouth, letting you know he likes you touching him. You swallow the sound eagerly, his mouth still plundering yours until you both have to break away for breath.

“You taste amazing,” he says in bursts of air, eyes closed, forehead to yours again. “You’re so soft, your mouth, your body,” and he squeezes you for emphasis, lips finding your cheeks and nose for breathy kisses.

You can’t help squirming just slightly at the word “soft”. You’ve never really thought of it positively in regards to yourself. His hands run down along your back, over the obvious curve of your backside where he squeezes hard and chuckles when you yelp. He does it again, using his grip on you to grind you against him, where you can feel just how worked up he’s gotten over these kisses.

You can’t help the little gasp that escapes you, that familiar heated tingle between your thighs. Only once or twice had you ever allowed yourself to imagine what he’d feel like, how his hardened cock would look, proud and ready and weeping for you. For a second, your blood is scorching in your veins.

“God, I can just get so many handfuls of you,” Liam murmurs hotly, lips finding yours again. As if to emphasize this strange line, his hands run back up your back to your sides, fingers digging and clutching at the places where your belly is most generous.

“Um,” you begin, growing so painfully self conscious that it’s nearly like getting cold water thrown on you, “what?” Although he’s still got a decent grip on you, your bodies meshed together in one of the best ways, you lean your face out of reach.

Liam leans with you, until he realizes you’re trying  _not_ to kiss him anymore. Blinking, he asks, “Huh?”

“Handfuls?” You squeak a bit, ready to pry his hands off you altogether.

Liam glances down where his hands are still firmly on your tummy. “Well, yeah? It… There’s so much of you to touch, I love it.” He gives you a grin that is all puppy dog obliviousness.

Of course, you’re grateful he didn’t go straight for the f-word, but you’re still not really sure you’re flattered.

“Liam, I- look, this is, um, this is why I’m so uncomfortable.”

You’re certain he couldn’t look more confused had you asked him to spell “antidisestablishmentarianism” and honestly you don’t really know how to address or handle this.

“What are you talking about, babe? I mean, I’m sorry I don’t get it, but… Well, I don’t get it.” He does look properly apologetic, but still uncertain.

When you push away this time, he lets you go, though it’s with a pained expression. While he tries awkwardly to pull up his sweat pants and hide the unexpected boner you’d given him, you try to collect your thoughts, somewhere between unbearably hot and cold, and feeling shy and embarrassed and stupid.

“When you say that… like, soft and h-handfuls, it’s just… I feel weird.”

He licks his lips and you lose your nerve for a moment because of the gesture. “Why does it make you feel that way? That’s the last thing I want, sweetheart, I mean it. I’ll stop it if you want me to but-”

You hold up a hand to cut him off. “Liam, when I said I wasn’t like other girls you’d dated,” you let out a heavy, resigned sigh, “I meant that it’s because I’m… I’m not skinny.”

Liam opens his mouth, then shuts it and frowns, like he’s not quite sure what to say. At this point, neither are you. You almost wish you hadn’t said a word, he’d still be holding you, kissing you right now. Maybe more, judging by how hot both of you had grown. After a few moments, Liam seems to know what he wants.

“Is that a bad thing, then?” he asks, finally. “Because, ah, it’s not really a thing for me. Not a thing that puts me off.”

Despite evidence already supporting what he says, like the lingering taste of musk and tea on your lips, you find it hard to believe.

“You don’t know what it looks like under here,” you counter weakly. You aren’t sure why you’re still protesting - you like Liam; he’s always been good company when you ran into him, he’s gorgeous, especially with that plush lower lip still red from kissing you.

You’re just afraid that when he gets beneath the clothes he won’t be so eager to get his hands full anymore.

“I want to see,” he tells you gently, “if you’ll let me, if you want me to.”

You lick your lips, not missing the way his eyes dart to the motion, and whisper, “Will you let me down easy if it’s too much?”

He steps in closer, cupping your face in his hands. They’re huge and warm against your soft cheeks and he doesn’t cringe, doesn’t flinch, just rubs his thumbs lightly near the corners of your mouth. “I’m not gonna let you down at all, sweetie.”

When moist heat pricks at your eyes, you swallow hard, trying to rein it in and tell him, “Kiss me again, please.”

And kiss you he does, slow and sweet an steady, mouth working at yours like he’s discovered some delectable fruit there. You let him touch all he wants, though your muscles jump and tighten when he slips his hands up underneath your tank top. He whispers soothing things to you as he feels you out, fingertips and palms sliding against the silky skin of your midsection, tracing the slightly painful line where the waist of your shorts clings a little too tightly. When you hiss softly at the strange sensation, the skin tender and oversensitive, he nibbles on your bottom lip, nudges you back toward the hallway wall.

Unexpectedly, as your back touches the wall, Liam sinks to his knees before you. You look down in sudden horror, lips parted to tell him to stop, but his eyes meet yours, chocolate depths warm and beseeching, and the words stall in your throat. You’re not sure you could deny him even if you truly wanted to, not when he looks at you like that, not when you feel suddenly aflame with the anticipation of what he’ll do. Still, it’s enough that you know he would stop of you asked. But you don’t and he slides your tank top up, revealing your tummy, with its pale spidery stretchmarks and occasional freckle and for a moment he lets you see him run his hands over it, nothing but a quiet reverence, perhaps a moderate curiosity on his face. You swallow hard, trembling and anxious, wanting him so damned badly, but still unable to help that initial urge to tighten up your muscles, suck it in so your tummy doesn’t hang too much at your shorts.

He prods you then, fingers sinking into your flesh and a little smile quirking the side of his mouth. To you though, he turns a firm gaze. “Don’t do that, baby girl, just relax. Don’t make yourself hurt, not for me. That’s silly.”

For a second time, you feel your eyes stinging, but you do what he says, slowly letting out your breath until your body settles comfortably back into its natural shape. “Liam…” you whimper, not sure exactly what you’re asking him.

Without answering, he kisses your belly, lips warm and soft and slightly slippery as he starts at the topmost curve and takes his time to move down, briefly tonguing that irritated line of skin to the sound of your soft whining. When he reaches your shorts, he hooks his fingers into the waist, gives a little tug at the fastenings and looks up at you. Your legs weak and breath heavy, you feel like all you can do is nod. Liam gives you a little comforting smile, and then you’re pressing your palms flat against the wall as he undoes the button and zipper on your denim shorts. You didn’t really plan for it to get here, when you said he could kiss you even just the first time, but now you know you really don’t want to stop, as his knuckles graze your skin while he slides the shorts and your panties down. When they pool at your sandal covered feet, he nudges your thighs apart with both hands, gripping them enough to dimple the skin and send goosebumps racing along your arms and legs. He presses a tender kiss to each of your knees before nuzzling his way between your legs, beard scratchy against your tummy and thighs in all the best ways.

His fingers reach the center of you before his mouth does, parting ample lips to swipe at the wetness that’s collected. A low, rumbling sort of sound escapes him as he finds out just how damp you are and you don’t know if he’s chuckling or growling but the sound makes you twitch, knees wobbling. Then he’s licking his way between your folds in slow, hot strokes and you lay your head back against the wall, legs trembling, his name on your lips. It’s been much too long since someone’s paid this kind of attention to you, much too long since you felt worth it, and Liam’s drinking you down like a hummingbird after nectar, running the stiff tip of his tongue over your clit in tight circles and electric swipes. The more you moan and quiver for him, the more he does, sucking one lip into his mouth and giving a gentle tug that almost puts you on your knees with him. Then his fingers are slipping up inside you, a groan escaping him as you clench around his middle and forefinger, by now you’re breathing in pants, tiny little moans and mewls escaping you and while you cling to the wall with one hand, you can’t help letting the other find the back of his head, fingertips digging into the short hairs and he rewards you with a little growl that seems to reverberate straight up your body from your clit just before he sucks the tiny nub into his mouth and pulls.

You come with a little scream, body going tight and white hot, clamping down on his fingers, which keep stroking up inside you, hooking to find just the right nerves to keep you shuddering over him, hips bucking forward. It’s a struggle to stay upright as Liam fingerfucks you through the orgasm, until you feel boneless and almost numb. Only then, having thoroughly cleaned you out with his mouth, does he pick himself up off the floor, hands coming up to keep you from sliding down the wall. He grins at your flushed face and glazed eyes.

“Come this way with me?” he wonders, eyes flicking to the closed door you know leads to his bedroom. You’d only ever gone in a handful of times, to make the bed if you caught it right after he’d left, or to put things in there that had migrated elsewhere in the house.

You lick your lips, hesitating, because you’re still pretty nervous, but just the idea that he wants to take to bed with him has your insides dancing again. With a swallow, you nod very quickly. Liam kneels again, one hand on massaging your side while he uses the other to help you step out of your shorts and panties, fingertips running over your ankle and the top of your foot as he undoes the little silver buckles on each sandal and slips those off too. You’ve only got the tank top to cover you as he whisks you off into his bedroom.

At the foot of his bed, he stops you, the backs of your knees against the soft cotton sheets that cover the mattress. Here, he kisses you hard on the mouth until you’re moaning between his lips as his hands grasp the hem of your tank and pull it up over your head. You don’t want to be nervous anymore, but there’s still that little twinge of “now he’s going to see whole picture” as he lets the shirt drift to the floor and those huge hands come up underneath your breasts, cupping them through the fabric of your favorite bra. His thumbs find your nipples easily as he squeezes them and presses his face into the supple tops, goosebumps prickling all over now as his beard tickles you and his lips take in all that they can. You’re basically putty in his hands as the bra finally comes off and he gently presses you down to sit on the edge of the bed.

You watch with slightly wide eyes as he hooks his fingers into the waist of his sweatpants and slides them down, not too slow, not making a show of it, but obviously aware of how closely you’re watching. He shifts his head a little to catch your gaze and grins, making your cheeks flush pink all over again, your arms sliding around yourself to instinctively hide even as he’s baring his hips and thighs and the rigid length of his cock, curling upward and begging for attention. With the pants on the floor, you lean forward without thinking, reaching for him. He lets you get as far as wrapping your fingers around him, thrusting into the touch and you know he’s aching for you. It’s a strangely powerful, giddy feeling that flutters up through your belly. Did you really do this?

“All for you, baby girl,” his voice rumbles up out of his chest, like he’s read your mind, and now you’re grinning shyly, slipping your hand up and down a time or two and testing the throaty sounds that escape him. He still has to touch you, hand running over your shoulder, underneath your chin as he makes those shuddery noises. It’s not until you dip forward, thinking you’ll return his favor from the hallway, that he stops you, gently threading his fingers through your hair. “Not this time,” he mumbles, “Later.”

“Later?” you feel a little stupid, but Liam’s already bending to kiss you, swallowing up the question as you squirm backwards on the bed to accomodate him crawling in over you.

“Next time,” he promises, lips ghosting over yours.

Your heart gives a little lurch, “Next… time?”

“Anytime you want, after this, sweetheart.” When you’ve wiggled your way back enough to have the pillows at your shoulder blades, he stops his oncoming assault, pressing his lips to yours firmly and then letting them trail down your jaw and your neck, pressing into all the pliant flesh he can, hands making way where he can’t. His grasp is massaging, fingers digging in, finding all the right places to make you noisy and breathless beneath him.

He dips his fingers into the wet center of you one more time, grinning, “Already?”

“Shut up,” you grumble, eyes sliding to the side.

But Liam still chuckles, nuzzling into your neck as he settles himself between your thighs, pressing them open with his hands and using just the motion of his hips to rub himself against you. You take a shuddering breath and when your lips part to plead with him, his name on your lips like a prayer, he wraps his own hand around his cock to guide it into you. You feel full from the get go, as he stretches you out with each little push, until he’s fully sheathed inside you and you’re both panting from the effort. Little curses slip from his mouth while he kisses you and you worry a bit out loud, that “it’s been a long time,” and he assures he’s “going to make sure that doesn’t happen again”. And when you finally think you can handle it, you push your hips up against his and Liam lets out the most delicious sound as you clench around him, taking the cue to move.

Not too fast, not too hard, though his concentration is thin, lower lip between his teeth as he tries to keep his eyes open to watch you writhing beneath him as he buries himself deep time and again. His hands can’t quite stay in one place, running along your knees and thighs, grabbing your ankle once to push your leg forward and make you cry out as he shifts and the angle has him running over places inside you’d forgotten existed. Then he’s bending over you to kiss you, your mouth, your chin, your neck and shoulders.

“Oh, babe, I’m so… so sorry, I can’t- not much longer,” he apologizes, sweat trickling down his face from the effort, and you open your mouth to tell him it’s fine, he’s been waiting much longer than you, after all, but his fingers find your swollen clit again and you see stars.

The moment your second orgasm of the day ripples through you, Liam tips right off that edge as well, giving a great shuddering gasp and little gulps of your name as his hips snap forward sloppily and he fills you to brimming. Your head’s thrown back into the pillows, and you can barely suck in air, everything’s just the feel of him against you, inside you, and then the heavy, warm weight of him on top of you as you’re both spent and panting. He tries to prop himself up on one elbow, running a hand back through your sweaty hair and grinning at you.

Still shivering with him planted so firmly inside you, you ask, “What?”

“That was amazing, love, you’re .. you’re amazing, thank you.”

You flush, “That’s… I don’t-”

He puts his finger to your lips, “Shush, now, it’s alright. Just tell me you won’t mind if we… keep this up from here? And I’ll take you on proper dates? Be.. a good boyfriend?” His brows raise up.

You blink stupidly at him for a few seconds. “Wh- Boyfriend?”

“Please?”

You still think he’s crazy, that something must have gotten shaken loose somewhere, but your body’s still humming with the pleasure he’s given you and your heart’s thumping hard against your ribs for more than one reason. “Okay, yeah… yes.”

And as if to seal the deal, he kisses you gently one last time, unthreading your bodies so he can lay beside you now, and pull you in against him. And maybe you don’t fit into all the spaces the same way a smaller girl would, but your bodies still seem to slot perfectly together in all the ways that matter.


End file.
